The guiding principle of Six Ridiculous Questions is that life is filled with ridiculousness. And questions. That only by giving in to these truths may we hope to slip the surly bonds of reality and attain the higher consciousness we all crave. (Eh, not really, but it sounded good there for a minute.) It’s just. Who knows? The ridiculousness and question bits, I guess. Why six? Assonance, baby, assonance.
In our morning reading: interviews with Jordy Rosenberg and Chris Campanioni, revisiting Aimee Mann’s music, and more.
On Means
by Karleigh Frisbie Brogan
The master bedroom, fulsome and delicately lit, had the illusion of being near water: a ceiling that rippled with sunset, the coolness of dim afternoon. In here we put our bed, a large ship of blonde wood, of brimming pillowtop. This was an adult bedroom, correct, decent, full of secrets kept in nightstand drawers and concealed between smoothed sheets. Rooms like these are recreated for catalogues and showrooms, Platonic forms on which our dreams are based.
In our weekend reading: new writing from Leslie Jamison, revisiting the works of John M. Ford, and more.
In our afternoon reading: Robert Macfarlane and Adam Scovell in conversation, Kimberly King Parsons and Melissa Duclos in conversation, and more.
In our morning reading: interviews with Paul Tremblay and Kevin Wilson, thoughts on Mary Gaitskill’s new book, and more.
In our afternoon reading: a literary award for Lucy Ellmann, an interview with Susan Choi, and more.
I met Christian TeBordo years ago at the Rainbo Club. He’s a regular. His spot is by the door, facing west. There’s a calm, self-contained quality to the way he carries himself. There’s no smartphone, notebook, or any other accessory on the bartop in front of him; just his pint of beer on the bar and a thoughtful expression on his face. He doesn’t look bored or lonely or sad like so many solitary drinkers do. The visit to the bar is clearly part of a routine. I find out later it’s the mid-point stop on his return from work between the Blue Line and home. For years we waved familiarly but rarely talked. I’m not in the habit of intruding on others’ space without a good reason. I knew TeBordo was a writer of some kind and that he was a professor at Roosevelt University, but not much more than that.